Archive | July, 2010

Moments in Mayhem

31 Jul

Copyright Anne Taintor, used with permission

We were at the local Y today, my home away from home, kids taking gymnastics and swim and me on the Cybex. A torturous contraption that I put up with in part as it’s the reason I can eat and still zip my pants. But it’s one of those cross training things, legs one direction and arms the other. I’ve determined the older I get, the less coordinated I become.

I was in a bit of a rush getting off the thing- mostly due to the teenage boy next to me. His gaseous emissions wouldn’t have passed the smog tests in even the most environmentally ignorant states. He was killing me and I needed to get the kids. His last outburst made me call it a day in a hurry. In my haste, I lost my balance and stumbled. I went down flailing, one foot still on a pedal and moving away from me, like I was going to unintentionally do the splits. All the while I was mid-motion to pick up my purse with my left arm, so my right arm, in an attempt to balance out the whole mess, hit the safety rail multiple times. Some help with safety those proved to be. I made some giant moaning oaffing sound which drew the attention and appalled stares of two teenage girls who quickly looked away from the scene I was creating and did nothing. Mr. Teen Gas was oblivious to the whole mess he’d created. He could win the Mr. Manners title too. Good luck to him in finding a girlfriend.

I got it together, and headed to get the kids where I narrowly missed an opportunity to fall fully clothed into the indoor pool. Fortunately, when we got into the changing rooms, Wilson provided another moment for mothers. He ran to the bathroom and promptly yelled, “OH MY GOSH!” As I ran to his rescue, he continued yelling. “Look mommy, look! I had a really big long poo and it came out shaped like a crescent moon!” He was right, on both accounts. As I bent over to wipe his bottom, he loudly protested. “Mommy, you are covering up my moon!”

No mother would look me in the eye as we left the joint. They were all too busy trying to conceal their laughter.

Things didn’t get much better in the coordination department when I got home and took a shower. Don’t ask, as I can’t even being to explain this one, but I managed to shave off two fingernails in an attempt to shave my legs. Good news, I like them short.

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Impressions

28 Jul

Copyright Anne Taintor, used with permission

I hate to give the impression that I’m not happy about being a mother or that I don’t love my children. It’s not the case. I find that motherhood has been a whole lot more challenging, exhausting, and wholly unexpected. As a frequent babysitter and member of a large extended family, I thought I knew what motherhood would be. I also thought my challenges would be limited to the child’s behaviors and not my own. I never considered how repetitive nights of disrupted sleep would affect me or the relationship with my husband. I certainly never expected that I would find myself crying and yelling back at a screaming infant. Once, when crying and desperate for help with a fussy and sleepless Madie, I was completely surprised when a pediatric nurse asked me if I thought about hurting the baby. It wasn’t until much later that I realized what I mess I was and how frantic I really was. I kept telling myself that it all shouldn’t be so hard. Millions of women have and had had children over the centuries. Most have much less available to them in terms of medical care, technology, appliances, and finances. But I was so overwhelmed and so surprised by my inability to handle things. After all, I was voted “Most likely to succeed.” I was that successful kid that went off to school, got her masters, had a job, had a staff! A baby? No problem!

Moreover, I wanted to have a baby more than anything. Motherhood was something that I had always wanted but didn’t quite know how I was going to fit it in will all my other plans. After all, I was going to be a famous actress. I was going to win the Oscar. I was going to have a wonderful nanny that the child never saw and never bonded to, but would take care of all the behind the scenes stuff. Like my babysitting experiences, I would be there to give a bath (with bubbles and toys) to read stories, to tuck into bed. The nanny would take care of all the other stuff. Apparently, in my fantasy world, a magical house would clean and run itself. Bills would be paid effortlessly and automatically and as I would be an Academy Award winning actress, I’d be loaded and travel the world. I’d be part Mother Theresa and part Hollywood siren. I’d manage all of this without causing disruption to my children’s lives or schooling. Somehow it would all be perfect. Who knew that Angela Jolie would actually live my fantasy? So that was part of the unexpected part…the getting pregnant. My doctors didn’t think it would be so easy. We were pretty prepared for all the work we’d have to do! Mark was anxious to get “practicing”. Men. Any excuse for more sex and they will rush to sign up. Turns out it didn’t take much at all and we were thrilled!

More unexpected stuff for Emily here; pregnancy was hard. I was not the pregnant woman I thought I’d be and for excited as I was for the outcome, I was pretty miserable with the process.

The worst part was I didn’t want to admit that I wasn’t having the time of my life and I didn’t want to relinquish any of my “duties” as I considered any kind of assistance an indicator of my complete failure at maternal success. If I’m being honest, there have been, and continue to be many arguments in the household as a result of this dichotomy. I want nothing more than to be a good mother. And on the other hand, I want to be so much more. The side that wants to be a good mother sees the side that wants to be more as selfish. And the side that wants more thinks the mother would be much better if she was more. Maybe that’s part of this writing quest. A way to be more without being less.

I also find that as the kids get older, it’s getting harder, not easier. It’s harder to balance the checking account when no one is napping. It’s harder to recover from a bad day as they remember that you lost your temper the day before. It’s harder to realize that your little baby needs you just a little less. I have so little time to really get this motherhood thing down. Maybe that’s why people keep having them; we are all just trying so darn hard to get it right.

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Pregnancy: The New Birthcontrol

25 Jul

Copyright Anne Taintor, used with permission

Pregnancy is terrific birth control. I realize that this sounds like the proverbial cart before the horse or cat out of the bag kind of discussion, but let’s stop and think about this one for a minute. Do you realize all that you have to give up when you are pregnant? You can’t eat sushi, you can’t eat tuna- even if it’s cooked, your meat needs to be cooked until it resembles something my mother-in-law serves, you can’t drink caffeine (ever try to buy a diet caffeine free beverage in restaurant) it’s a whole world of sacrifice. Of course the biggest sacrifice is you- your body- your mind- your SANITY.

How many women do you know that loved being pregnant? You know the ones I’m referring to! I’m not talking about the gals that loved the fringe benefits of being pregnant. That, perhaps, took advantage of being pregnant (like I did) and ate everything in sight or the ones that enjoyed all the attention that came from being pregnant, i.e. the showers, the doors being opened, etc. I’m talking about that obnoxious sub-set of women that just loved being pregnant. They never threw up, their ankles never swelled, their bodies never morphed into something disturbingly hairy, their boobs never resembled watermelons with salad plate sized nipples, they never walked around with cracker crumbs on their tummies from excessive saltine eating to reduce the indigestion and belching, they never got a stretch mark on their belly, let alone their butt, hips or thighs. You know the women I’m talking about. The women that actually liked being pregnant. The women that opted to jog up to ER to deliver and delivered without breaking a sweat, without swearing at their husbands, and without drugs. The women that left the hospital weighing less than when they went in. THOSE women. But for the rest of us glamorous gals, pregnancy was a great birth control method.

So much so that during my second pregnancy, when I was made nauseous by just about everything, I called my husband to report a new parenting low. Madie, not even two, was following me around the house, telling me what I already knew. She had a poopy diaper. “I have poos, mommy! I have poos!” To which all I could do was try to run away from her, responding with what I’m sure I’ll have to pay for in her future therapy sessions. I desperately responded with, “Stay away from mommy! Stay away from me!!!” She of course didn’t listen, the nausea didn’t pass, I headed for the bathroom, she followed laughing about the fun new game we were apparently playing. Bent over the toilet vomiting, I was cheered on by my clapping 18 month old! “Yeah mommy! Me flush!” And she shut the lid on my head. As I tried to recover, and even before brushing my teeth, I called my husband. “I don’t care what comes out,” I hissed, “But it’s the last one.” I still have trouble telling people with a straight face that at one time I had seriously considered that I would have four children. I never would have made it though the pregnancy.

So pregnancy is rough enough, then you go to have the baby. I ended up with a C-section, so much of the labor pains, pushing etc- totally unknown to me. However, I did manage to come up with a fund raising idea for the hospital during the labor. In all the chaos of the announcement of an emergency C-section, one nurse held up an electric razor and turned it on close to my face. Naturally, the buzzing of an instrument in my face got my attention. She informed me she was going to be shaving my pubic region, a requirement for a C-section. OK. So forget the humiliation factor involved with labor, I mean the whole world sees your parts, your cheesy thighs, etc, but now you have to suffer the re-growth of pubic hair though staples. It gave me a terrific idea.

As the daughter of a doctor, as a person living in the US of A- we all know that healthcare is looking for ways to make money. Couldn’t the hospital start offering hair removal options for a small price? Wouldn’t a cold wax been just a quick and easy during delivery? Seriously? I mean, most of us hadn’t been able to see our privates for so long to tend to business and now you have to have uncomfortable re-growth? Why not offer the wax? When I was expecting my second child, and this time had a planned C-section, I asked my OB- who already knew I was completely nuts, about getting waxed (I realized I’d have to go to a salon prior to labor and have this done). I wanted to know how much needed to be waxed so I wouldn’t have itchy re-growth again. It was then that I launched my big hospital fund raising idea on her. Was an electric razor necessary? For a small fee, wouldn’t a cold wax have been just as fast and effective? She just laughed at the idea. OK- maybe it’s just more birth control!

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Where’s Erma?

22 Jul

It’s recently dawned upon me why my mother so enjoyed all those Erma Bombeck books and articles. Much of my generation and younger is probably wondering, “Who’s Erma?” Erma wrote tons of books about being a wife and mother. My mother laughed her way through many a long car ride, family vacation, and most of my teen years by breathlessly reading Erma. She’d stop laughing long enough to read to all of us, captive in a car in the middle of nowhere, long before walkman’s and iPhones, some excerpt from the book. Most excerpts weren’t long enough to get the full flavor, and it’s hard to follow a joke when my mom would read it, punctuated with laughter, and sometimes had to stop all together to catch her breath and wipe the tears from her eyes.

As a mother of two young children, I’m not only asking myself why I didn’t pay better attention (perhaps I would have kept myself out of this whole mess)…but I’m wondering where’s Erma? I know, the “real” Erma passed away many years ago, but where is the “Erma” of today? Where is the Erma in my world? As every day at home presents itself with more challenges from my kids and husband, I’m looking around my group of friends and wondering which one of us will find the sanity in this mess.

Let me start by saying that I, Emily Ash, have one terrific group of girlfriends. Collectively, they keep me going. Individually, they are all just as much of a mess as I am. Not one of them seems to have any better grip on this motherhood thing. Not one of them has managed to make a smooth transition from working single, to married, to motherhood. Some have stayed at work, others have remained at home. Some have left work, returned home, and returned (screaming) to the world of gainful employment. So why exactly is it that we keep having these children? I don’t just mean me, I stopped at two. One girl, Madeline; one boy, Wilson. I’m talking about the world. What exactly makes it seem so appealing to have kids?

So let’s just start there. Birth control. Like many women before me, I was raised by a mother who was full of contradictions. A Presbyterian woman, converted to Catholicism who when asked if she followed the Catholic doctrine not to use birth control, would answer with a question. “You and your sister are two years, two months, and two days apart. Pretty well planned for a Catholic family, wouldn’t you say?” She also was a firm believer in babysitting, and she set our rates. My first gig was for 50 cents- for the whole night. I was responsible for two young children and I was probably 12. By the time I was 14, I was a veteran, earning $2.00 per hour, but still not experienced enough to deal with a vomiting baby. When I called home for help, complaining of a headache, lamenting my outfit which was covered in puke, and the endless nature of the emissions from the baby…my mother fearlessly responded. She sent my older sister right over with two Tylenol (they were extra strength), a clean shirt and a message that I was in charge. I think there was a greater message. Babysitting was birth control.

We were trained that when the parents returned home the children should have been fed, washed, and sleeping. The house should be clean, dishes should be put away, and the sitter was to be awake and not on the phone. Sounds oddly like the way I run my house. Welcome to the 1950’s in the Ash house. By the time my husband comes home, I have this idiotic idea that the kids should be fed and washed, the house cleaned up, and our dinner prepared. Now, I don’t even make $2.00 per hour!

Let me be clear, it’s my “idiotic idea” not my reality. The reality is that I’m still chiseling up the Life cereal from the morning, the kids are splashing about dangerously unattended in the tub, and dinner is either still a frozen block of chicken breasts or completely undetermined. Most nights, the kids are in bed by 7pm (only because I can’t stand them much longer and I’m afraid if I don’t get them to bed, I’ll end up on the 7 o’clock news). The house is quiet, punctuated by kids stalling, requesting more bathroom visits, water, hugs, etc. At least the 7 to 8pm hour is eased by the uptick in my drinking habit. Again, I’m asking, where’s Erma? Where’s the sense in this? I remember living for the weekend; no school, no work. Now what? The weekend is just the same as Wednesday. They all start and end the same, the bits of the daily are marginally variable but I’m searching for the point, the goal, the endgame…the reward. I need someone to make sense out of all this.

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